Too Long
by alexa35
Summary: Twenty years is a long, long time. So very long. Maybe he has forgotten. Maybe he is dead. You wouldn't know. But he promised, and a promise is a promise. And it was the ultimate promise, the last promise he made you.. Post-Fang.


**Too Long**

_Twenty years is a long, long time. Maybe he has forgotten. Maybe he is dead. You wouldn't know. But he promised, and a promise is a promise. And it was the ultimate promise, the last promise he made you.. - Max shows up at the cliff after twenty years, and is devastated at what she finds; or rather, what she didn't._

It's been done. I know.

But, whatever. I feel like writing, and this shall be something to kick-start me back into my writing after half a year of hiatus from the gateway to my ambition, :). (I'm still trying to salvage anything that is left of my writing abilities.)

Music: I Need Some Sleep by Eels, on repeat. Heartbreaking, really.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Maximum Ride and any other characters associated with the story.

* * *

_"Tell you what sweetie: if in twenty years we haven't expired yet, and the world is still more or less in one piece, I'll meet you at the top of that cliff where we first met the hawks and learned to fly with them. You know the one. Twenty years from today, if I'm still alive, I'll be there waiting for you. You can bet on it." -Fang_

* * *

You remember.

Twenty years. He promised.

Twenty years is a really, really long time.

You flap your wings a little harder, increasing your speed by just a bit, and your eyes water at the contact with the chilly air at the pace you are going. Maybe you should have listened to Gazzy about wearing goggles when flying, especially with the now common acid rain. The clouds are getting dangerous.

You scan the scenery that lay all beneath you, and a sinking feeling settles deep in your stomach.

You gulp, and sweat forms on your palms. _No_, you think, as you survey the waste that lay beneath you. It doesn't matter. You will still find him, no matter what.

He promised. Twenty years. He promised.

And twenty years is a really, really long time.

(Too long.)

You try to remember where the cliff is; you rack your brain for the memories, stored deep at the back of your mind for fear of losing them. Well, it has always been a fetish that even Angel, with access to her thoughts, can never understand. You are afraid that the more you dwell on it, the more you will forget.

And you don't want to forget, you never want to forget, not one single bit, you can never dream of forgetting his eyes you so easily drown in, the sight of him flying, his glorious dark wings, the look on his face when he looks at you, the feeling he gives you when he kisses you, his words, his hands, his body, his

You shake your head vigorously and get a grip on yourself. There is no point on dwelling over that now, and your eyes brighten in anticipation at the thought of seeing all of that again, today. Yes.

After twenty years. Twenty damned years.

(And twenty years is so, so very long.)

It is fuzzy, but you thank the fact that the memory is still there. Ah, the hawks. You look around, and you suddenly feel a sense of loss and loneliness when you see no sign of life in the grey sky.

But then again, it is rare to see signs of life around the planet now. Your face hardens.

You circle the piece of wasteland where you think, where you _know_, the cliff had once been, and you slowly lower yourself. You look around for an area clear of rubbish and waste matter, and you land on the ground, your sneakers squelching in the thick, brown mud.

You silently curse in your head, for you have only just purchased those sneakers a few days ago. After all, age has never stopped you in anything. You resolve to wash them later on once you get back.

_If _you get back.

Heck, it's Fang after all. The unexpected happens. Shit happens. Love happens. You never will know till it happens.

Your stomach churns at the thought of Fang, and you wonder at the feeling, for after the twenty years, after the heartbreak, the tears, the sleepless nights, after all he has put you through for leaving, you still get butterflies in your stomach at the thought of meeting him. If this isn't love, then you don't know what it is. Madness, probably.

You berate yourself at what a pansy you've turned into. A puddle of pansy-Max.

But, twenty years without Fang is a long time.

(Too long for you. Oh so very long.)

As you circle the area, you are somewhat sure that this is the place where the cliff had once been. It is lower than what you remember, but it still holds some of the shape and you still remember the shape of the other cliffs around, the valley below, the once beautiful scenery.

How. How could it be that something so beautiful has turned into a dump, a wasteland, grey and muddied and full of the stench of misery, abandonment, grief, even.

How? You fight the feeling of grief and guilt that threatens to overwhelm you.

It's all your fault, after all. You have failed to save the world.

You cannot believe that you are again having this conversation with yourself, after all the fights and debates with Angel and Nudge and Gazzy and Iggy over it. They have assured you, persuaded you, convinced you one too many times that this isn't your fault. You saved the world. You did save the world. You saved the world from Itex, and without Fang, what more.

But it looks like the world wasn't doing its own part to save itself.

You sigh, as you look one more time at the dump, lifeless and filthy. The air is still, the smell is overwhelming, and you start to feel slightly dizzy at the lack of oxygen. There are no plants to be seen, no animals, nothing. Not even a rat, or a cockroach. Not a fly, not a shrub, not an ant to be seen. Nothing. Just a lifeless place to throw the rubbish that people have to offer.

You grab a rotting armchair from somewhere and you sit yourself in it, putting your hands to your head. You have heard of the mess that some places have become, but you have been too wrapped up in self-misery and self-pity that you have not done anything about the environmental threat.

What is the point in saving the world from Itex? All the shit the Flock has gone through, all for nothing. The fighting, the suffering. All for _nothing_. The world is going to die sooner or later.

And everyone is going to die along with it.

And you realize that it is almost noon and Fang is nowhere to be seen. You steer your thoughts away from the world and wonder if he is going to show up, like he promised.

Maybe he has forgotten.

After all, twenty years is such a long time.

(So long, and yet, it doesn't numb the pain.)

You sit there and wait, you wait, for the love of your life, who left you, caused you and himself so much pain for the greater good, made you laugh, made you smile, made you cry, made you feel happy, angry, silly, elated, insecure, confused.

You will wait till the end of the world. You are willing to wait until you die.

An hour passes.

Two hours.

Three.

You remain seated in the broken and rickety arm chair, waiting.

Six hours.

Dark shadows are cast, and the stillness of the place still creeps you out. But you continue waiting, and you will, until Fang arrives.

Seven hours.

The sun is setting, and Fang is nowhere to be seen.

Yes, maybe he has forgotten. Twenty years is a long time. A long time to forget about the past, enough to create a new future for himself. Maybe he has a wife. Maybe he has children. Miniature Fangs, running around the backyard of a house. Your lips quirk at the thought; little Fang-and-Maxlets, the product of your mutual love for each other.

But no such thing exists, and if Fang has children, it will be with some other lucky woman out there.

You bite your bottom lip, the thought haunting you, and you continue waiting.

Twenty years is a long time. Maybe he has forgotten, but the night is still young, and you will wait. You have waited twenty years, so what is a few more hours?

(Twenty years. So very long.)

Eight hours.

Nine.

Ten.

You don't move to stretch your stiff limbs, you don't move to let the soreness pass. You resist your urge to relieve yourself, and you have been sitting there for so long the stench no longer bothers you.

You survey the darkness that lay beyond and around you.

Maybe he is hiding somewhere, waiting for the stroke of midnight, like in the fairytales you read to Nudge's little children.

Maybe, just maybe.

And maybe he has forgotten about her.

Maybe he is dead. Maybe his expiration date showed up and he died, years ago.

You wouldn't know. Twenty years is such a long time.

(Too long.)

Eleven hours.

A few minutes pass.

You glance at the white watch strapped to your wrist that you have forgotten about. Luxuries have always been rather hard for you to get used to, anyway, and having a watch to know the time is one of those luxuries.

There is less than half an hour to midnight.

You feel your heart sink lower and lower, as the minutes tick by.

But there is still that glimmer of hope, that maybe, just maybe..

Fifteen minutes left.

Ten.

Five.

Three.

Two.

One.

You feel whatever that is left of your heart break, for letting him get to you. For letting yourself fall into this death trap called love and inflict so much pain on yourself over him. A tear rolls down your cheek, and you sniff.

You can forsee that this will be another sleepless night, and you predict that there will be many more to come.

Fourty-two seconds left to midnight.

But why would he do to you?

He loves you. You love him. He wouldn't let you down like this. An he promised. He said twenty years. He said here.

You suddenly remember in a daze that you had stuffed the frequently-read letter into your back pocket this morning, before you left. You have forgotten about that in your haste, but it suddenly strikes you. You slowly slip your hand behind your back and pull it out of the back pocket of your jeans reluctantly.

Thirty seconds.

You open the worn letter, yellowed but still in good condition. You open it, with shaking hands and blurring vision, and you quickly scan through the contents.

_"Twenty years from today, if I'm still alive, I'll be there waiting for you. You can bet on it."_

You look up from the piece of paper. But where is he?

Then, in the distance, you hear the still air stir with movement, and the faint sound of flapping wings. Your heart lifts tremendously and you glance at your watch. Five seconds to midnight.

Four.

A dark figure with wings appears in front of the moonlight, and with every flap, it gets larger.

Your eyes widen, as you realize.. Could it be..?

Three.

Flap, flap, flap. The figure moves out of the moonlight and into the darkness, but you can hear it coming closer. You hear your heart thundering in your ears.

Two.

It must be. It must be him.

Yes.

Yes!

One.

Your heart suddenly warms, and you feel like jumping in joy, screaming, running, laughing, you feel young again, like a teenager, and your stomach flutters, your heart beats ten times faster, your smile would put a Cheshire cat to shame.

Midnight.

The figure swoops down and into the light, and you realize that it is merely a lone hawk.

You freeze, as reality sinks in. The smile on your face drops slowly.

Your heart shatters, and you drop to your knees.

The day is over.

Twenty years.

Over.

Cold realization strikes you like a hard blow to the head, and you finally realize that he is never going to appear. Because he promised, and it was the ultimate promise, the last promise he made to you..

And he didn't keep his word.

You conclude that he is dead. Or that he has forgotten. And those two options are both as equally heart-wrenching. You feel drained. Broken. You feel the last ounce of hope and joy that has kept you going for the past twenty years seep out of your body. You can no longer see any reason to keep on living, to continue with your sad little life, to look forward to the next day of your life.

The silent night echoes with your agonized wail of desperation and heartbreak.

(Oh, twenty years is such a long, long time.)

* * *

**-FINIS-**


End file.
